


my worries as big as the moon (show me my silver lining)

by darthdarcyy



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alpha!Rey, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Ben likes to crochet and listen to indie pop, F/M, Genital Piercing, Knotting, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Modern AU, Multi, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega!Ben, Rey prefers angry girl music of the death metal variety, Scenting, Soulmates, ben is raised as a mini flower kiddo by his lesbian grandmas, big dicks and handknit goodboi sweaters, brief mentions of Rey's life in foster care, coffee shop meet cute turned on its head, compatible mates, feral!rey, no snoke or first order, rey was adopted by maz and chewie when she was 10, softboi!Ben, softboi!ben's ~kinky~ past, true good boy sweater ben with a dick piercing cough, virgin!rey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:40:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24640096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthdarcyy/pseuds/darthdarcyy
Summary: In which disgruntled Alpha Rey Kanata makes entirely too many mistakes when it comes to her perspective "perfect mate."Or: Ben Solo decides that the best things in life come to those who know how to be patient. Like granny stitch blankets, the perfect Alderaanian patchwork quilt, and of course: soulmates.Or even: this is how a relationship begins, one stitch at a time.
Relationships: Breha/Padme, Chewbacca/Maz Kanata, Kylo Ren/Rey, Poe Dameron/Finn/Rose Tico, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 10
Kudos: 96





	my worries as big as the moon (show me my silver lining)

**Author's Note:**

> ...Oh hi I'm back with another &^%$ing WIP. This one is based on my own thirst tweet: "i want shy/feral/awkward/never been kissed/trash goblin who collects scrap/Alpha!Rey and experienced/quiet/loves to knit and crochet and quilt/best soft boi ever/Omega!Ben." I decided eff it...might as well add it to the pile.
> 
> A few things:
> 
> 1\. I PROMISE GRACELESS HEARTS HAS NOT BEEN ABANDONED. I swear! Chapter 11 is plodding along! :)  
> 2\. No triggers at this time, but I will tag as I write. If you see anything, let me know? Please?
> 
> So one of the reasons I love omegaverse so much as a trope is the opportunities it provides for me to explore issues we deal with every day in a more exaggerated manner. In graceless hearts, Rey is the Omega. She struggles with depression and anxiety and a full ass terror of letting go. She's vulnerable despite hating it, quiet, and shy. I see a lot of those aspects of Rey in the films and also in the novelizations of the films. 
> 
> But I also wanted to write different parts of Rey, the little facets we only get peeks of in canon. In this story, Rey has some rage issues. She isn't soft on the outside: she wears steel toed boots and a scowl, listens to screamo and riot grrl and death metal, hates society. On the inside? She's melted chocolate. She's a cuddler in DENIAL. Because honestly, if Rey was able to like...not be this paragon in canon, she'd have this anger. Why wouldn't she? She has every right.
> 
> So let's see what happens when ultra!softboi Ben Solo cracks open feralaf!Rey's graham cracker crust and digs into the gooey deliciousness inside lmao. 
> 
> Sending love and thanks to my beta: [flypaper_brain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flypaper_brain/works). Fly??? Liking my trash??? ghakjshgjg THANK YOU. And for the friends who read the first drafts and said it was worth posting and continuing: to Zach for the support and alifetimewaited for being the best and all the music and discussions and plotting. <3 
> 
> Also, major shoutout to the QUEEN of Knitter!Ben, [lachesisgrimm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/olga_theodora/pseuds/lachesisgrimm), who wrote my absolute favorite modern au of all time: Purl Two Together. Thank you thank you.
> 
> And everyone who's left a kind comment or a kudo on my other fics: you water my crops and raise my dopamine levels every day. Thank you <3

_ You see by the lines on my hands _

_ I've been carrying a heavy load _

_ You follow them across my palms _

_ Where they run like roads _

_ Won't you come and read the future, turn it on _

_ Won't you tell me how I will not feel so lonely? _

Great Lake Swimmers,  _ Palmistry _

The first time Rey scents him, she’s operating the espresso machine. Or trying to, anyway. 

It’s twelve years old, decrepit, half-rusted. A certified, grade A Piece of Shit that Chewie’s kept alive mostly through sheer determination not to spend thousands of dollars on a replacement. She’s surprised customers still want to drink the espresso that pisses out of it after all these years. Apparently people will drink anything once it’s been copiously sweetened with chocolate syrup and whipped cream. 

Rey’s wasted the last ten minutes on one mocha, trying to pour a shot that doesn’t have grains in it and contemplating taking the metal bat Poe keeps by the back door to it in an act of pure Alpha rage, when she inhales in a frustrated sigh…

And it hits her, like a fucking battering ram. 

_ Cinnamon rolls. _

_ The tang of yeast,  _ _ the soothing richness of melted butter, _ _ the tingling warmth of cinnamon hitting the back of her tongue.  _

_ That first glaze-covered bite into dough fresh from the oven. _

_ Sugar and sunshine.  _

_ Soft winter days, huge hands engulfing hers. _

_ Cotton and flannel and a hint of sweat. _

_ Omega. _

_ Home. _

Her sigh gets caught in her throat and she nearly chokes.  _ Omega?! Home?!??!?! _

As if in answer, something buried inside her under the rubble of her bitterness and fury starts to purr.

_ Omega? _

As always Rey has her earbuds in as she’s attempting to pull shots, doing her best to avoid speaking to customers, so she hadn't heard the bell over the door tinkle when it announced his entrance. 

It’s a shock then, when the scent pours over her like the comfort of a fire on a snowy day. She is reminded, in a span of two seconds, of the first time Maz wrapped her arms around her shoulders, the first time Chewie lifted her over his head and ran with her around the yard. The first time she walked down the street with them, her hands clutching theirs. Feeling like a family. 

The first time she ever knew with certainty that she belonged to something. Someone.

And it fills her with rage.

Which says a lot, because if Rey feels anything these days...or ya know, has felt anything in her pathetic life...it’s rage.

What does this...this... _ asshole _ think he’s doing, walking around without suppressants? The only way she could scent him this intensely, enough to swim and drown in it, is if he wasn’t taking any medication at all.

Which is just...not only offensive, but dangerous. And possibly illegal. Right? It has to be.

(She doesn’t know how she’s so sure he’s a he...maybe it’s the hint of musk under the warm smell that suggests thick pecs and delicious sweat.)

She can’t bring herself to look up or turn down her music, and her face is a boiling red that suggests steam pouring out of her ears, but she can  _ almost  _ hear a rumbling purr of a voice over the screaming and pounding of some song about cattle mutilation roaring through her earbuds. She knows Rose is taking his order, writing his name on a little white paper cup, sliding it across the sticky wood counter in Rey’s general direction. It’s a routine that’s muscle memory by now, picking up that cup when she sees a dot of white out of the corner of her eye and checking the order, but Rey can’t turn in the direction of the cash register to take the fucking thing. She’s frozen.

She’s never smelled something...someone so  _ delicious _ in her life, and she was adopted by cafe owners who bake their own pastries. She was raised with chocolate chip cookies on the menu every night, standing at Chewie’s elbow as he mixed up croissants or shortbreads, helping Maz lick the spatula clean after pumpkin or banana bread. It really says something that this...this Omega smells better than anything her father’s ever made.

Rey inhales again, she can’t help it. Time slows down to a crawl and it’s just her, the half-broken machine, and Savage Master shrieking blood and murder in her ears, echoing the flurry of emotion that is at a constant simmer under her skin. She tries to focus on her breathing like her therapist says to do when she feels about to rattle out of her skin like a snake, but her hands are starting to tremble on the portafilter she’s gripping like it’s her last lifeline.

She nearly jumps a foot in the air when her left earbud is tugged out and dropped into her apron pocket. Suddenly the cafe noises -- the whisper of Carole King over the speakers; the clanking sounds of Poe tidying the stock in the back as he hums off-key; the murmurs of the knitting group as they talk and click away in the corner, their only customers outside of the dude waiting for his mocha -- hit her, no longer muffled by her music. 

Whirling, apron slapping her thighs as she flails in the direction of whomever  _ dared to touch her,  _ Rey nearly socks Rose in the face.

“God fucking-”

“Ouch!”

“Sorry!”

Rey withdraws her hand before she gives Rose a black eye and the two freeze, regarding each other over the Sharpie Rose holds like a projectile about to take flight. 

“You okay?” Rey asks, eyeing the marker. Rose has impeccable aim, if she wants to toss it at her.

“Are  _ you? _ ” The smaller Omega replies, brow arched, a smile quirking her mouth. She tucks the Sharpie back behind her ear and just  _ looks _ at Rey. Gives her that expression that screams  _ you are a ridiculous goddamn mess but I sort of love you a lot. _

_ She _ certainly doesn’t smell like sinful, sweet baked goods. In fact, Rey can’t smell Rose at all under the cucumber deodorant she uses and sometimes, when she wants to go out dancing, the light floral spritzes of her perfume. No pheromones, ever. She can’t smell Finn either, or Chewie, her blockers are too strong and they take their meds religiously. All Chewie smells like is Old Spice body wash he firmly denies using, and Finn just smells like...Finn. Whatever cologne he’s currently experimenting with, and the tang of men’s Sure deodorant.

Normal shit. Not life changing, visceral scents that are more emotion than anything else.

Which means this customer is just walking around in public with his scent hanging out, stinking up the place. Like a douchebag. 

Ignoring Rose’s question, Rey grabs her by the elbow and pulls her behind the still steaming espresso machine, which is now hissing like a threatened cat. Unperturbed, she ducks behind it, crouching and hiding even though neither of them are tall enough to be visible over its top. She wrenches out her other earbud as she whispers furiously to a gobsmacked looking Rose: “DO YOU SMELL THAT???”

Rose rubs her arm, frowning down at Rey’s grasping fingers, the nails chewed to the quick and painted with cracked black polish, cuticles crusted with coffee grounds. She is completely unmoved by Rey’s panic. She’s used to Alpha moods between Rey and Poe and Maz. They’ve known each other since elementary school. They live in the same dumpy two story piece of shit house together, drive into work together, have never gotten drunk or high with anyone else. They were there for the other’s first period, first bra shopping trip. There isn’t much about Rey that Rose doesn’t know. 

If Rey isn’t screaming (whisper-screaming in this case) or listening to screaming, she’s unconscious.

“Smell what? Did that skunk spray the back door again?”

She starts working on uncurling Rey’s fingers one by one from her elbow as Rey stands there panicking, the smell wafting over her like a goddamn cocoon of solace and everything good in the wo-

“No no no, Bob’s fucking hibernating, it’s December,” Rey shakes the forearm in her clutching grip. “The Omega. You’re an Omega, don’t you smell him?”

It’s impolite to sniff the air like a dog, but Rose glances around once to see if anyone, anyone at all could possibly be looking and then does it, her nose scrunching delicately. If Rey were a lesbian or at all attracted to anyone identifying as female, Rose would be perfect. She’s loyal, sweet and fierce all at once, obsessed with her friends’ happiness (and love lives. Or in Rey’s case, lack thereof), and completely adorable. Not to mention smart as hell, paying her way through the local community college two courses at a time, with the added bonus of having a fantabulous rear end. Perfect catch of an Omega, really. But unfortunately, Rey is heterosexual. Proof that sexuality truly is a choice because whoever’s up there messing around with the universe truly decided to play a joke when they made her: a female, hetero  _ Alpha. _

“Uh, nooo-” Rose hums, still picking at Rey’s fingers.

And then it hits her. Rey feels a smidge of true terror as a grin spreads over Rose’s face. She knows that grin, she sees it whenever she catches Finn and Poe giving each other  _ that look _ or when she gains control over the remote. “Him? Reyyyyy did you scent a nice boyyyyyy?”

“No!!” Rey is just about to shriek, her spine stiffening with pure indignation,  _ LIES AND SLANDER,  _ when a hesitant voice from behind the espresso machine interrupts them.

“Um miss, I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes for my moch-”

Rey lets go of Rose’s arm and steps around the counter, eyeing up the businessman in his wrinkled gray suit. He’s tapping his fingers too, standing there with his good job and his  _ future _ and his bullshit tapping fingers. 

“You can stuff your mocha up your ass,” she informs him primly, glaring as his index and middle finger tap tap tap away on the island’s surface. “Get out.”

Rose rushes to amend the situation as the man splutters something about how much money he spent and turns a rather amusing shade of puce. She knows she’ll hear a lecture about customer service and  _ how much they need the tip money _ later (RENT!!! CAPITALISM!!! WIFI!!!!!), but Rey’s fed up. She’s fed up with the leaking espresso machine, customers, men, being an Alpha...men, and the goddamned scent of cinnamon rolls that’s still rolling around in her senses like a puppy in a blanket.

She turns back to the machine and snatches up the cup Rose put down moments before, holding it up in front of her nose and glaring at it.  _ Ben S. _ it reads, in Rose’s heavy scrawl. 

Ben.

An Omega named Ben. Who wants a caramel latte. Okay then.

Standing on her tiptoes until she can just see over the top of the machine, she doesn’t spot him standing near the counter, or sitting by himself at a table. Just the knitting group, a smattering of people of all ages and genders and colors sitting clustered by the windows. The tables they jammed together (that Rey will inevitably have to pull back to their original positions) are covered in bags of projects, laptops, skeins and balls of yarn in a hundred different colors. They’re a quiet group, they gather at the cafe twice a week, sometimes more if Maz lets them. They  _ usually _ clean up after themselves, but never put their tables back.

Rey is a stickler for details, and she holds grudges like other people collect rocks or stamps or other normal things. She remembers when customers don’t put their tables back, and she remembers having to move them. 

Is he a new knitter? Or a solo coffee drinker? One of those assholes with a laptop who sits by the window all day, leeching off the wifi?

Hmm.

Wrenching out the full portafilter, Rey slams it a bit too hard against the trashcan right below the counter to dislodge the grounds, bracing the can with her knee so it doesn’t go flying. 

As Rose gets the businessman a refund at the cash register, she quickly makes the mysterious Omega’s tall double shot caramel latte (maybe he likes sweet things just as much as she does). She tamps down the grounds as well as she can, really leaning into it and twisting, unwilling to acknowledge it’s the most effort she’s made in days. Or weeks, maybe years. She’s been working here since she turned fifteen, after all. 

She delicately tilts the frothing pitcher, cradling it in her hands instead of leaving it to unevenly heat the milk so she can do other things, start other drinks, stare into space and contemplate the void. 

_ God _ , is she trying to impress this dude?

After scenting him once? What kind of Alpha designation ass bullshit-

Just as Rose slams the register closed and rounds on Rey to start her lecture, Rey snaps a lid on the Omega’s drink and slides on a sleeve. She holds a hand up in Rose’s face, ignoring her hiss of, “don’t you dare stick your hand in my face Rey Kanata I am going to kick your-” to yell at the absolute top of her lungs: 

“BEN???? TALL DOUBLE SHOT CARAMEL LATTE FOR BEN? BEN? IS A BEN HERE?”

Rose stops hissing to  _ stare _ at her. 

_ Ben? _ She mouths. Rey ignores her and skirts around the island, calling the name again. “DOUBLE. SHOT-” she exclaims, dragging out each word in a drawl. Now the knitters are looking up, she can hear the scrape of a chair just beyond her line of sight. She’ll get to see him soon…

And when he appears, he isn’t at all what she expected. 

Tall and broad...so tall and so broad, he’s built like an industrial sized fridge, like a damn log cabin made flesh. The heavy muscles of his arms are at war with the sleeves of his olive green t-shirt, and Rey can spot defined pectorals under the thin material even at a distance, as if the guy was carved from marble with a fucking chisel by a Renaissance master. 

She can’t quite make out his features with his back to the windows and the afternoon sun, but his hair is thick and dark, nearly coal-black, just brushing his shoulders in loose waves. Hair to kill for. And his legs...Jesus Humbert Christ. Thick, tree trunk thighs stretching black skinny jeans to their limit, huge feet encased in scuffed brown boots. The sight of those thighs woven with muscle and jiggling _ just so _ as he moves sends shivers down Rey’s spine. An electric  _ zing _ of heat hits her right in the lower abdomen, and she squeezes her thighs together, hoping against hope that she isn’t soaking her panties over a customer.

His scent is practically  _ wafting _ over her now, all caramelized sugar and bubbling hot dough fresh from the oven and  _ glaze. _ Oh my god he smells like  _ glaze. _

Her favorite part of the goddamned cinnamon roll. Maz used to make an entire mixing bowl of it and Rey would eat it until she was sick and her hair and face were streaked with stickiness.

And the worst thing...she must finally be losing it because her Alpha brain is now doot doot dooting the intro to Hot Chocolate’s You Sexy Thing. She can almost swear he’s moving toward her in slow motion across the laminate floor. Is this what a sexual awakening looks like? She didn’t expect it to be so annoying, or so like a bad comedy film.

Either way, he looks like an oasis in the middle of a desert and Rey’s mouth is bone dry, parched, and she suddenly intimately knows what the phrase  _ tall drink of water _ means.

When he comes to a complete stop at the counter island, he turns from the window and his features come into stark relief in the shadows. Rey is even more flummoxed to see that he is  _ beautiful _ up close; all sharp jawed and pale, an aquiline nose that adds just a bit of distinction to his features, with moles dotting his skin like punctuation marks and lips from Satan himself. 

He can’t possibly be an Omega, she thinks, as he leans against the counter, his shoulders curving inwards as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with his size, his bulk. She hates to stereotype, especially being on the receiving end of quite a few herself as a cisfemale Alpha and knowing what Omegas go through every day, but...it has to be a mistake, right? He’s like every fantasy she ever allowed herself to have, big and broad and soft all at once...he can’t be an Omega. 

He doesn’t meet her eyes as he stands there, awkwardly scratching the side of his neck, as if he can’t think of what to say to claim his own beverage. 

It takes her a moment, in the painful pause that ensues, to figure out that at least her ridiculous hindbrain isn’t screaming a sex song from the 70s. It’s actually the cafe speakers. 

Thank god for small mercies.

They stand, Rey with her hands clenched around the steaming hot coffee cup and her nipples hard as little pebbles under her  _ Silver Lining Coffee  _ t-shirt, and Ben fidgeting, still not making any kind of eye contact for several excruciating seconds.

Deciding to end this, Rey clears her throat a few times, coughs, wants to die, and finally manages to squeak out, “You’re Ben?”

He nods, still not looking up at her, and it’s...frustrating in a way she can’t explain.  _ Omega doesn’t like me, not enough for him, don’t please him.  _ His scent is even warmer this close, with only inches of wood panelling between them, and more complex too. She can smell a hint of orange juice under the glaze now, a bit of lemon and a hint of coffee. Like a sweet breakfast from her dreams. 

Rey isn’t a girl of many fantasies. She has a vibrating dildo, a sleek, businesslike number with 3 speeds that she uses to get off maybe twice a month at the most. When her ruts hit, she spends four days with her wrist cramped from sliding the silicone in and out of her cunt, her mouth clenched around a pillow, but she doesn’t think of much, doesn’t picture anything. Doesn’t watch porn, doesn’t read romance novels. She prefers science fiction.

Never really had a celebrity crush or thought a boy in school was cute. Kissing always looked like a nice way to catch a cold.

She’s been pursued by boys before who thought they could slide into her pants and get a taste of what she had heard referred to as her “iron pussy.” Never made dating a desirable or pleasant prospect.

In the moments when she does allow herself to fantasize, usually when she’s drunk or has smoked a blunt with her friends and she’s lying in her bed with her legs splayed, watching shadows drift across her ceiling, she pictures hands. Big hands, warm and soft, cupping her close. 

In the dark under her quilts and blankets, she can finally let down the walls she builds every day, brick by brick, around her mangled little heart. She can painstakingly set each brick, each tightly molded block of resentment and screaming rage aside. She can then take that fragile little organ between her palms like a newborn bird and picture...just for a moment...holding it out to someone else. Trusting them enough to do that, to place all of her ugly little shards into another’s hands. Big hands. They would have to be big, to hold all of that without breaking.

It figures really, that an abandoned orphan’s fantasy would be  _ raw acceptance _ instead of fucking.

Rey allows herself a glance at this Omega’s hands, watches them rub his neck, rest quietly on the island.  _ They’re not tapping _ , her hindbrain notes, as if trying to tempt her with her favorite candy.  _ See? _

Artist’s hands, graceful, with actual  _ cut _ nails as if he cares about grooming and fingers twice the size of hers. They’re  _ massive _ . Is that why he smells like every dessert she longed for as a cold, hungry little kid? Because he has hands big enough to build a house, to tear down a wall? Maybe tear down hers, if she wanted him to?

Goddammit.

And there it is, just like flipping a switch, boiling in her gut like indigestion: Alpha rage. A feeling more familiar than feeling nothing at all. 

She sets his coffee down between them with more force than necessary, a few dots of caramel flavored espresso leaking out, and  _ slaps _ her palm down beside it. He looks up quickly, flinching at the skidding sound the paper cup makes on the wood, the firm smack of her hand. 

_ Don’t displease Omega _ , her hindbrain voice begs.  _ He’d be so good to you. You know it’s true… _

Rey tamps it down like a particularly difficult, choking swallow. “You know,” she hisses, backing around the island so it lies between them like a void she will never cross. She points a shaky, accusatory finger in the direction of his chest. “You have some nerve.”

He really looks scared then, brows furrowed in confusion. He has whiskey-dark eyes, soulful eyes, and Rey doesn’t meet them. She can’t bear to. She’s tempted to plug her nose like a five year old to punctuate her point. 

“Wh-what?” he splutters.

“Walking around unsuppressed like some douche canoe,” she says, ignoring the way his gorgeous face crumples in complete shock, tinged with something like hurt. Is he going to lie? Make up some excuse? “I could smell you from a mile away. What’s wrong with you? Do you want to trigger some girl’s rut or something without their consent? That’s just reprehensible. There are kids-”

“Um, no. No! No, I’d never-”

Rey doesn’t realize she’s almost yelling, nearly close to infuriated tears, her heart slapping a helpless staccato against her sternum, until a heavy hand lands on her shoulder. 

“Rey,” Poe says, patting her briefly before withdrawing. He’s standing next to her now, all easy Alpha confidence, even in his apron covered in flour. Something Rey will  _ never _ have in a million years. She hadn’t even heard the kitchen doors swing open or  _ thwack _ closed, where did he even come from? “Why don’t you grab some croissants from the back? We’re out.”

It’s an excuse, he just came from the back, but Rey needs the escape. She needs to get away from the scent she wants to bury herself in, the boiling inside of her that feels more like sadness than rage. 

She wants to luxuriate in that Omega like a kitten would a patch of buttery warm sunlight. She wants to paint her skin with his scent, bathe in it, tattoo it across her insides, bottle it and keep it under her pillow so she can suck in great lungfuls of it in the dark before she goes to sleep. So she can dream of it and maybe, just maybe, escape the chains of her own molding. It’s obscene, feeling this helpless sort of craving. 

When she was ten, just after she’d been adopted by Maz and Chewie, she used to sneak snack foods they’d buy in bulk at Costco into her closet. At night, she’d turn off all her lights and lock herself in there, consuming them one by one until she felt so nauseous she nearly vomited: neon orange cheese crackers filled with strips of peanut butter, pillowy soft chocolate cake cookies, entire sleeves of Oreos, crinkling packages of Nutty Buddies, little chocolate chip cakes filled with cream. Chewie bought her anything she asked for or even looked at with a hint of longing in her eyes, but she was so used to having nothing at all. She ate just to prove she could, alone in the closet she was just beginning to fill with clothes.

She doesn’t say anything to Poe, just sends the Om-Ben one last baleful glare that he responds to with fucking  _ puppy dog eyes,  _ the bastard, before she scampers to the back room like an animal with its tail tucked between its shaking legs.

The last thing she hears, before the doors close with a final smack behind her and she is alone with her shaking hands and her poor cunt clenching around air and her  _ sadness, fuck _ , is Poe crying jovially, “Ben Solo! Long time no see!”


End file.
